Tainted
by KRHviolin
Summary: Oneshot. Tainted blood and tainted mind. The night that Tom Marvolo Riddle murders his father and grandparents, continuing where J.K. Rowling left off.


**Author's Note:** I'd been wanting to write this scene for a long time (I also needed a break with my other story). It's rather rare in fanfiction and hardly touched upon in the book, but also quite interesting to me and fun to write. This is my take on how things occurred on that fateful summer night in 1943 and my very first oneshot. I hope you enjoy, and please review :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter.

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The date was July 28, 1943.

This had not mattered to him before. Up until approximately ten minutes ago, the day had contained nothing particularly memorable or interesting. Now, the exact date was quite important. Tom Marvolo Riddle wanted to remember it forever. The memories he had that actually meant something to him were few and far between. This would be one of them.

As he reached the main road that led into the town, it occurred to him that the air was quite cold. There was a strange dampness in the air. For a summer night this was most unusual. The clear sky above the quaint town of Little Hangleton was very dark, almost black, and the stars and moon shone unusually bright against it. The path before him was illuminated with moonlight, almost beckoning him to his destination. _The big house over the way_ thought Riddle. His eyes narrowed. He could already see it in the distance.

The manor loomed over the village almost threateningly. It was a vast, grand establishment; the elaborate grounds were spread over the entire hillside. The Riddles were clearly quite wealthy, and keen on showing it off to anyone within a ten mile radius. He felt a hot surge of anger as he remembered all the cold, shivering nights at the orphanage, the poverty he experienced, and how uncomfortable and inadequate his clothes and lodgings were. He loathed the crying children, the unpleasant odors, the sickness and disease…

He made no attempt to assuage his anger as he walked briskly down the main road. Tom knew that he would need its power soon enough. He put his hands in his pockets, checking again to make sure his wand was with him. The dirt and gravel crunched softly beneath his feet. He noticed how quiet everything was. No chirping of crickets, no fluttering wings of birds, no bark of a dog. It was deathly still. Not a soul was around.

He jumped as he heard the abrupt striking of the town clock. He counted 12 deep, resonant chimes; he was slightly dismayed at how late it was already. Tom hoped, strangely, that his father, and whoever else lived in the house, was still awake. He didn't want to have to wake them up; that was an awkward situation he hoped to forego.

He continued to walk past rows of small, quaint houses and shops. Some had ivy-covered gates, or small gardens, or thin trails of smoke coming from the chimneys. He glanced into a few windows as he passed. All of them were dark or had tightly closed curtains. Tom glared at his surroundings. He was very annoyed at having to be present in a filthy Muggle abode like this. He could tell by the shut houses and the lack of activity that this town was entirely too closed-minded. It was devoid of culture, ambition, and purpose. _Typical Muggle living_, he thought.

The sophisticated house drew nearer with each step he took. As he made his way up the steep hill, strange feelings began to overwhelm him. He felt determined, purposeful, confident, exhilarated…he didn't know exactly what was going to happen, but he had a feeling. He knew the spell that would take the life of another, but would he use it?

He stopped, suddenly, as he heard strange, uneven footsteps on the path ahead of him. He was very close to the house now, away from the lights of the town. He could barely see the outlines of the wrought-iron gate, and it was too dark to see whom the footsteps belonged to. He retreated to the side of the road and observed the path from a distance.

A disheveled-looking man in his late twenties was hobbling down the path towards the village. He was supported by a cane and struggling to carry what looked like some large watering cans and a crate of various gardening materials. Their eyes met briefly; the man looked at him oddly while Tom's eyes narrowed. He continued to stare at the struggling man as he made his way precariously down the steep hill. Tom felt no sympathy for the disabled Muggle and continued on his way. He chuckled softly when he heard the deafening sound of the watering cans being dropped and rolling noisily down the hill.

Tom paused before the gate and listened; the shuffling footsteps grew fainter and eventually disappeared. He took a deep breath, drew his wand, and slowly pushed open the intricate wrought-iron gate. It had been carelessly left unlocked.

The house loomed in front of him pompously as he walked down the garden path. It seemed to be challenging him to proceed, questioning his purpose. He noticed that the grounds were well taken care of, which Tom found ironic after seeing the state of the gardener. The house, however, was a different story.

As he drew nearer, he could see the white paint chipped and peeling in some places. It was slightly dirty and rain-streaked. The ironwork on the balconies looked rusty and old. Perhaps the Riddles weren't doing as well as they outwardly boasted. Tom was at the door. He noticed that the ornate knocker and doorknob were somewhat dusty, as if they had not been used in a while. He smirked. It looked as if he would be their first visitor in some time…and possibly their last.

He tried the doorknob, hardly surprised, yet slightly annoyed, to discover that it was locked.

"_Alohomora_," he murmured, a blue light emitting from his wand. He heard the door click open and he proceeded inside, brandishing his wand.

At once Tom was surrounded by stale, warm air that was so different from the outside. His nostrils flared in disgust. It appeared that the Riddles were not keen on going outside either. This house had not been opened up in a long time. It was pitch black.

"_Lumos_," he whispered; a small sliver of light emerged from the tip of his wand. He closed the door silently behind him, listening carefully for any signs that his presence had been detected. He heard nothing. If possible, the house seemed to be even quieter than the town below it. The Riddles must have not been doing well at all, if they could not even afford servants. His clothes suddenly felt much too hot, so he removed his black traveling cloak and placed it on a peg near the door.

Tom saw a sweeping, richly carpeted staircase directly ahead. Deciding that the upper floors would be the best place to start, he proceeded silently, his wand held aloft. As he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, hearing faint voices. They were coming from a far room down the hall to his left. He could not make out any words, only murmurs.

As he glided down the hall, the voices grew clearer. His heart was pounding in his ears; he found that his hands were shaking slightly with anticipation. Tom was feeling many things at once; as a result he could not identify how exactly he viewed the situation. A part of him was somewhat nervous at the prospect of meeting his relatives. All his life he had felt and been alone. The fact that he had family at all was confusing to him. He wondered what they might be like, or how they would react to him. Mostly he found himself filled with hatred for his father who abandoned him, ashamed that his ancestry with Salazar Slytherin was tainted by this worthless Muggle lineage.

He stopped next to the door and leaned in close to it. He could hear their voices as clearly as if they were standing next to him. Before he acted, he wanted to listen. There was silence for a few moments and Tom held his breath, afraid of being discovered. At last someone spoke.

"Dear, it's getting rather late. Don't you think we should call it a night and continue this discussion tomorrow?" said a woman's voice. She sounded older, exhausted and somewhat wary.

"No," said a man's voice abruptly. He too sounded aged. "He needs to hear this. He needs to know exactly what he's done, exactly the shame he has caused this family."

"Oh, come off it, father," said a snobbish, younger man's voice. "I hear this same speech from you almost every day, as if all of this is _my_ fault." Tom listened intently as he heard his father's voice for the first time. It was somewhat similar to his own, but filled with an air of superiority that Tom found laughable, given that he was a mere Muggle.

"It _is_ your fault, Tom! Can't you see?" hissed the older man. "Ever since that…_incident_ happened all those years ago everything has been ruined! Just look around you! This house is diminishing in value. We've had to let go of nearly all of our staff. We can't even afford to keep a maid around to clean up after you! Luckily that gardener stays for free, but he was always a bit touched in the head ever since the war…"

"Your father has lost nearly _all_ of his providers and businesses! We're losing money every day! Our reputation is one of the worst in the county! No one wants to visit anymore, no one writes, no more parties…all everyone talks about is how the son went crazy all those years ago! You should hear the rumors, Tom…people think we have to keep you locked up in the basement all day otherwise you'll go around spouting off your insane stories!" screeched the older woman, suddenly spurred by the man's speech.

"Frankly it's an embarrassing situation, still having you in this house. You're thirty-eight years old, for God's sake! You're too old to fight in the war, you're still unmarried, and I doubt that there are any women _left_ in this town who would marry you, after all that has happened, and still you refuse to seek your fortune elsewhere! We own a nice flat in London you could easily move to. There is so much potential there, but you refuse to leave! All you want to do is lay around the house all day! You have no ambition or drive to do _anything_!" yelled the older man, who Tom assumed must be his grandfather. He listened to the argument with a strange fascination. It seemed so petty to him, and his father was disappointing him more and more by the minute. He was not like him after all.

"All those years ago you had so much going for you Tom," said the older woman, his grandmother, quietly. "Our status and wealth was at its peak, you were getting job offers daily in the mail…everyone assumed you'd be just as successful as your father, and you were engaged to that beautiful girl, Cecilia…and then…and then," she broke off and began to sob.

"Can't you see what you're doing to your mother, what you have done to us all? You have ruined this family, Tom. _Ruined it_! You and Cecilia were a match made in heaven, good breeding from the wealthiest families in the county, and then you had to go and run off with, of all people, the _tramp's daughter_!"

"SHUT UP, BOTH OF YOU!" his father yelled. "I've told you—and everyone—so many times! I was tricked, hoodwinked, taken in! She forced me! I don't know how, but somehow she did! I would have never married someone like that of my own free will…someone so repulsive and foul! And especially from _that_ family of deranged inbreeds!" Tom felt his blood beginning to boil with anger. His grip tightened on his wand.

Slowly he reached for the doorknob. His hand closed around it and he stood perfectly still, his thoughts turning back to the orphanage and his miserable childhood, devoid of friendship and innocence. He was forced to relive horrible memories. No one had ever cared about him. His father, meanwhile, had lived in the lap of luxury his whole life. He could never conceive of what his own son had been through. It was all his father's fault. He abandoned his mother because she was a witch, because he was too ignorant to understand. He called her, a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, scum, when he himself was a lowly Muggle. He must have known that his son existed, and yet no attempt was made to find him. He was fit to live in ignorance and excess his whole life, never knowing the pain his son had gone through.

Tom knew that he would kill his father. When he was younger, he would've liked to believe that his father was a great man, someone to look up to, a source for inspiration. But he was no different from any of the other Muggles he had encountered: selfish, unkind, lazy, oblivious, and utterly worthless.

He turned the doorknob and opened the door slowly, stepping silently into the dimly lit room. It was only when he closed the door behind him that they noticed his presence. At once the obnoxious arguing stopped and they all turned to look at the intruder, looks of astonishment on their faces. For a few moments, the four Riddles stared at each other.

All three of them were dressed in their daytime clothes, even though the hour was late. His grandfather was a tall, thin man with white hair that was seemingly once dark like his own. He was standing up, looking quite angry in a rather arrogant way. His grandmother was also tall and thin, with gray hair in a tight bun. She was sitting a few feet away on a comfortable-looking sofa. She wore a black dress as if in mourning and looked strict in addition to snobbish. Tom turned his gaze to his father, his eyes narrowing as he took in his appearance for the first time.

He was sitting nonchalantly in a squashy armchair, wearing what looked like his best suit. He was facing his mother and father, but his head was turned towards the door. He too had wavy jet-black hair, which was in the early stages of turning white. His eyes were dark and conveyed an odd expression of surprise mingled with recognition and something that looked like anger. There were signs of premature aging on his face, brought about from the stress and conflict with his family. Although their features were nearly the same, there was something different in his father's eyes and expression that suggested a much less complex human being than his son.

The Riddles looked at the stranger for a few moments. They did not know what to do or think, as odd situations like this never happened to them. Tom was struggling to retain his composure as he gazed loathingly at his Muggle relatives. His long fingers gripped his wand tighter. They had not noticed it yet.

He realized that his grandparents were going to get in the way of things. This was a matter between he and his father and no one else; they served no purpose to him. He heard his grandmother gasp; she had noticed his striking similarity to her son.

"Who the devil are you?" said his grandfather angrily. Tom's eyes flitted back to his father, who was staring at his wand with fearful recognition. Tom smirked; he had seen one before, and he knew to be afraid of it.

"Father, don't move," said his father stiffly. He stood up from his chair slowly, his eyes fixated on the wand, as if confronted with a poisonous and deadly snake. Tom raised it, and his father's eyes followed. He was trembling slightly with excitement; he felt determined and powerful. The other two didn't seem to understand the seriousness of the situation and his grandfather spoke again, this time more forcefully.

"Answer me, boy! What are you doing in this house? How dare you trespass upon these grounds!" he started towards him. Tom Riddle was filled with loathing as he looked upon this filthy Muggle family and his father who abandoned him, who didn't care about him. None of them had ever cared. They deserved this. There was an odd glint in his eye as he pointed his wand directly at his grandfather.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" he shouted, and a blinding jet of green light struck his grandfather in the chest. His first murder. The old man crumpled to the floor in front of his father, who drew back, horrorstruck. The old woman wailed in shock and terror, leaping up from the couch and running to her deceased husband.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" he yelled louder this time, his face triumphant and evil. She toppled to the floor next to her husband. Both of the bodies stared up at the ceiling. Their eyes were still open, their faces still filled fear.

Tom Riddle Sr. looked upon the corpses of his parents catatonically, his mouth open in a silent scream. Tom Riddle Jr. looked down at his hand holding the wand. It was no longer shaking. He had murdered two people, and yet he felt calmer than before. He felt strangely accomplished, fulfilled, and _alive_.

Killing felt extraordinary.

He raised his gaze to his father's, an evil smile lit up his face.

"Hello, father," he said quietly. Riddle met his gaze. The older man gulped, struggling to regain his composure, but there was no mistaking the fear in his eyes.

"My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am your son," his voice sounded strangely higher and colder than before. He stared unblinkingly at his father, his wand pointed directly at his heart.

"I kn-know who you are. I knew it when you first entered the room, when I first saw you," he stammered, his eyes darting from his son's face to his wand.

"I must admit, father, that you are very disappointing," he said icily. Tom Riddle Sr. looked at his son fully for the first time. He was dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt, a black vest, and black trousers. He was a handsome boy, the spitting image of himself when he was sixteen. There wasn't a trace of the woman in his features; this both surprised him and made it somewhat easier to speak to him.

"I suppose you're proud of yourself? Did _she_ put you up to this? She had one of them, too," said his father with some difficulty as he pointed to the wand. "I bet she taught you all her tricks. She probably kept and raised you just so you could do this," Tom felt a hot surge of anger at the callous words.

"If you're talking about my mother, _your wife_, she died giving birth to me nearly sixteen years ago," he said contemptuously. He saw his father's eyes narrow slightly, but nothing more.

"I'll spare you my life story, father, because I know you could never conceive of it. You could never understand how I've had to live these past sixteen years. You'll never comprehend the suffering and confusion, the poverty and squalor I had to try to survive in, the loneliness I felt and how I was outcast at the orphanage because I was _different_," he paused, staring at his father intently. "Yes, father, I _am_ different. Mother was different too, wasn't she?" Riddle did not answer, but only stared at his son in anguish and shock.

"I was told my whole life that being different was bad, they tried to make me be like everyone else, but no…I could do things that no one else around me could. I could punish those who were cruel to me. From then on, I knew that I wanted to be different. I didn't want to be like the others. When I was different, no one hurt me anymore because they were afraid," his voice shook with excitement. His lips began to curl into a cruel smile. Tom was not sure why he was opening up to his father like this, but he could not seem to stop himself. He wanted to tell this man exactly what he had caused.

"That is why you will never understand, father. Muggles like you thrive on being like everyone else; your society values conformity, ignorance, and selfishness. That is why you abandoned my mother, your wife, and me, your unborn child. You cared only about yourself. You could never conceive that there was something beyond your world, something great but terrible and infinitely superior to your filthy society," he spat. He glared at his father, his wand still pointed directly at his heart. His father stared back, terrified and overwhelmed. There was a hungry gleam in his son's eyes that frightened him. He was a madman, a murderer, a monster…

"You abandoned me before I was even born. You knew I existed, but you didn't care. You were content to live your selfish little life while I was utterly alone from the moment I came into this world. You showed no remorse when you left my mother to die in the streets…and I will show _you_ no remorse, father," he spoke in barely a whisper. He raised his wand.

"P-please, listen to me. Tom, my _son…_" he broke off, hot tears began to stream down his cheeks. He felt something that he had never felt before in his life…was it grief? Guilt? Regret? Or was it only because he knew he was going to die?

Tom regarded the weeping man balefully. He never could stand people crying. He didn't care what the man had to say, and he certainly wasn't interested in his side of the story. He only wanted to tell his father exactly what he felt about him and be done with it.

"It is far too late for that, father. From the moment I found out who you were and what you had done, I knew that you deserved to die by me. Even now, at the very end, you only care about yourself. I _hate_ you, father," he looked at the shaking, sobbing, pathetic man for a few moments, relishing in the power he had over him. His eyes gleamed red as his anger reached a breaking point. At that moment, he was filled with pure hatred. Something inside him snapped.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA_!" he yelled triumphantly. His father's body fell to the floor with a dull thud next to his parents. His corpse stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. Even in death, the fear was present; the eyes still brimmed with tears.

Tom stared at the three bodies, an expression of wild and bestial happiness on his face. He noticed that he was panting heavily; the thrill of killing was still there. He began to chuckle softly. Their expressions were rather humorous to him. He laughed harder when he saw how funny their twisted bodies looked on the floor. He laughed even harder until the room rang with the deafening sound of his maniacal hysterics. His ears rang with the high, cold shrieks until at last he began to feel tightness in his chest. His breathing grew shorter and painful. Suddenly he felt exhausted. He sat down behind the armchair that his father was sitting in only a few short minutes ago and leaned against the back of it.

He rested one arm on top of his propped up knee and turned his head to look once more upon the bodies. His eyes narrowed in disgust at the sprawled figures of his father and grandparents. Yet he felt strangely pleased at the sight of them, for now there was no more reminder of his filthy Muggle lineage, no trace that he was ever related to them. He smirked at the sprawled figure of his father, who was a fool even in death.

He stood up and walked quickly out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. He did not look back.

He glided down the staircase to the elaborate front door, where he remembered to pick up his traveling cloak from the peg. He put it on and pocketed his wand. He left the scene quickly, a hint of a smile on his face as he closed the door behind him.

He did not jump this time when he heard the resonant chime of the town clock. He counted only one strike. The moon and stars seemed to shine brighter than before. Tom felt exhilarated, content, and strangely _alive_, his senses and awareness incedibly heightened.

Tom thoughts turned greedily to the Peverell ring awaiting him in the squalid shack where his uncle lay, oblivious and unconscious. Now, it was time to take care of other business. Lord Voldemort's eyes gleamed red in the darkness and he smiled, knowing now that he would succeed.

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I hope you enjoyed it! The title refers to Tom Riddle's blood ("tainted" by Muggles) as well as his soul and mind after committing the murders.


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